Dragon's Lair

Chapter 19

September 1193

Mostyn, North Wales

The chapel was absolutely and eerily still, so quiet that Justin imagined the other men must be able to hear the wild pounding of his heart. The Welsh lay brothers were clustered together, uncomprehending but fearful. These hooded, faceless figures garbed in austere monks' habits seemed ghostly and unreal to Justin, not flesh-and-blood men, more like the starkly sculptured effigies on tombs of the dead.

Durand at last broke the foreboding silence, saying very dryly, "Well… John was right. This is awkward." His eyes moved dismissively over the lay brothers, coming to rest upon Justin's face. "It is no secret that I have no fondness for you, de Quincy. If truth be told, you've been a pain in the arse from our first meeting. But we are on the same side, more or less."

As he spoke, he was unfastening his mantle, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. "If I do not kill you, though, I'll be defying John's express command. Not only will he be sorely vexed with me, he is like to become highly suspicious as well. So I have to ask myself which matters more to the queen, that I continue to serve her by spying on her son or that you continue to breathe."

With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew his sword from its scabbard. "Alas for you, we both know the answer to that question."

At the sight of the weapon, the lay brothers shrank back. Justin forced himself to stand his ground. Durand seemed in no hurry, though. "I'll do this much for you," he said coolly. "I'll not go for a deathblow. If you somehow survive, I can always tell John that I was sure your wound was mortal. So try not to flinch away from the blade or you could spoil my aim. You might want to kneel and close your eyes so you do not see the strike coming."

The mockery misfired, for it kindled a raw, visceral rage. Justin was far from a fool. He well knew that an unarmed man stood little chance against a swordsman as skilled as Durand. In a recessed corner of his soul, he was not even sure if he could have prevailed had he been armed. Durand was Death's henchman, whereas Justin had never killed anyone. But for now his fury was searing along his spine, surging through his veins, cauterizing his fear, and he tensed, awaiting his opportunity.

Durand kept his eyes upon Justin as he jerked his head toward the door and ordered the conversi to get out. Even without a knowledge of French, they seemed to grasp what was happening and burst into agitated Welsh that meant nothing to Durand. "Be gone from here," he snapped, "whilst you still can!"

"They are distraught that you would spill blood in God's House." Justin felt a flicker of pride that his voice sounded so even, so controlled. "They say that you would be committing a mortal sin. They do not know that your soul is already forfeit to the Antichrist!"

Durand spat out an oath, although whether it was aimed at his gibe or the balking monks, Justin could not say. One of the lay brothers then did something quite courageous. His youth was long gone, for he leaned heavily upon a cut-off shepherd's staff, his shoulders hunched under the burden of too many years, too much pain. He did not hesitate, though, shuffled slowly but resolutely toward Durand, and if his voice was reedy, quavering with age and apprehension, his words were boldly spoken — that Durand must not pollute their holy church with bloodshed and violence.

Losing patience, Durand snarled, "The blood shed can always be yours, old man!"

With a thrust of his arm, he sent the elderly monk reeling. There was an outcry from the other conversi, and Justin darted behind the altar, intending to make a grab for the torch sputtering in the wall sconce. What happened next froze him in his tracks. As the old man fell, he somehow entangled the crook of his staff around Durand's ankle, and the knight, already off balance from the shove, went crashing to the floor.

Justin had dared hope that the Almighty might aid him in his time of need. He'd not expected the Lord God to intervene, though, in so spectacular a fashion. But he did not waste time questioning his blessings, and when the sword shot from Durand's grasp, he dived for it. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good as the grip of that hilt in his hand. Knowing that he'd been given a reprieve, not deliverance, he rolled over and came swiftly to his feet, bracing for Durand's counterattack.

It never came. Durand was still sprawled upon the floor, with the aged monk astride him, a knee grinding into his chest, a dagger blade pressing against his throat. "You'd best lie very still, for an old man's hands are none too steady."

There was no need for Justin to translate; the warning had been given in fluent French. Durand took it seriously, not moving so much as a muscle. He felt no anger, not even fear, not yet, just utter astonishment. The monk's hood had fallen back, revealing a head of thick, dark hair that had never known a tonsure, revealing the face of a youthful, triumphant stranger, a man Durand had never laid eyes upon. "Who in Hellfire," he gasped, "are you?"

He sounded so dumbfounded that Justin burst out laughing. "It is my pleasure and my privilege," he said, deliberately drawing the words out, savoring the moment, "to introduce you, Durand, to the next Prince of North Wales, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."

Llewelyn's companions were already shedding their habits, shaking off, too, the diffidence of submissive, unworldly monks. They wore swords with the ease of men accustomed to making use of them, knives tucked into high boots, and one of them had a coil of hempen rope looped in his belt. He was uncommonly tall, towering over Durand like a sturdy Welsh oak as he dangled the rope before the knight's eyes, looped into a hangman's noose. "Be a good lad and lie still," he said cheerfully, "and I'll fight the urge to see if this fits around your neck,"

Durand weighed his chances, decided he did not like the odds, and did not resist as they jerked his arms behind his back. He was soon trussed up like a Michaelmas goose, bound hand and foot and gagged with a strip from his own mantle. He was not cowed, though, glaring up at them and taking comfort from hard-earned wisdom, that as long as a man had a heartbeat, he had hope, too.

For the moment, Justin was being ignored. He was examining Durand's sword, weighing the heft of it appreciatively before sliding it into the empty scabbard at his hip. "I think I got the best of this exchange," he said, and then, "We've no time to celebrate, though. John left men behind — "

Seeing the look of amusement that passed among them, he smiled sheepishly. "I forgot… you already know that. What do you want to do about them?"

"They pose no threat. You see, the men in the dorter are not monks. They are mine,"

Justin's mouth dropped open, and then he laughed. "I do not know why that surprises me. You've been two jumps ahead of us from the first. Obviously Sion alerted you that Emma was going to the holy well at Treffynnon. So… you then put some of your men in the village, posing as pilgrims. My guess is that they overheard Oliver seeking directions to Mostyn. Am I right so far?"

"In fact," Llewelyn said, "we had no need to eavesdrop. Oliver was obliging enough to ask Ednyved." Tossing his head toward the amiable giant, he introduced him as Ednyved ap Cynwrig, and the third man, a dark, slender youth with glittering green eyes, as Ednyved's cousin, Rhys ap Cadell. "Yes, the same Rhys ap Cadell who crept into Rhuddlan Castle to commit unholy murder in Davydd's own chapel."

When Rhys did not take the bait, Llewelyn playfully elbowed him in the ribs before turning back to Justin. "Once we knew Mostyn grange was the site, it was easy enough to get here first and then to convince the lay brothers that we ought to be the ones to welcome the English invaders."

Justin knew that the monks of Basingwerk were not like the monks of Aberconwy; they were English in origin and loyalties, and he could not help wondering how Llewelyn had "convinced" the lay brothers to vacate the grange. His suspicions must have shown on his face, for Llewelyn grinned.

"To answer your unspoken question, Iestyn, the lay brothers are not buried out in the woods. They are burrowing for warmth under the hay up in the barn's loft, and right willingly. You see, the monks at Basingwerk may be dutiful subjects of the English Crown, but their lay brothers are Welsh to the bone."

"Well, however you did it, I am grateful," Justin said. "Of course it might have been easier on my nerves had I known I was not facing down Durand alone. I am not surprised that you fooled him so readily, for I never suspected that you were other than simple lay brothers. A pity you were born to the blood royal, Llewelyn. You'd have made a fine player. The shepherd's staff… that was an inspired touch."

"Christ Jesus, do not tell him that!" Ednyved was staring at Justin as if horrified. "He needs no encouragement to strut about the stage. We're just lucky we were shy of time, else he'd have taken it into his head to give us all tonsures to make us more convincing monks!"

They'd been conversing in French as a courtesy to Justin, but now Llewelyn said something in Welsh, too fast for Justin to catch, and the others laughed. Justin was amazed that they seemed so free and easy with Llewelyn, for he could not imagine an Englishman bantering so familiarly with his prince. After conferring with Rhys, Llewelyn sent him out into the rain, but Justin asked no questions, guessing that the young Welshman had gone to alert the rest of their men that the trap had been sprung. He was highly impressed by the efficiency of the entire operation, and now that his initial exhilaration was subsiding, he was remembering what a formidable foe Llewelyn ab Iorwerth could be.

Llewelyn was gazing down at Durand. "So this one spies for the queen against her own son? Is he good at what he does?"

"Yes, God smite him," Justin admitted, "very good." As he looked at Durand, his anger came flooding back, and he strode over, jerked out the knight's gag. "So when were you going to warn the queen that John was stealing the ransom? After he'd gotten it safely away to Paris?"

"I did not learn of his plans until we reached Chester, you fool! You truly think John shares his every secret with me?"

"I think that you could teach Judas Iscariot about betrayal! You just proved what I've long suspected, that you serve only yourself."

"Jesus wept! How will I ever live with your bad opinion of me, de Quincy?"

"Assuming that you do," Llewelyn interjected silkily. "Live, that is."

Durand's eyes cut toward him, then back to Justin. "Does the queen share her every plan with you? No more than John does with me. He is too shrewd to trust all his chickens to one hen roost. I knew nothing of this scheme until we sailed, and even then, he only told me bits and pieces of the plot."

"And what of his other reason for returning to England?" Justin jeered. "Dare you claim to be ignorant of that, too?"

"So far, yes, but I'll soon find out what I need to know. I always do, de Quincy. That is why the queen values my services so highly, and why I could not risk losing John's trust by sparing you."

Justin shook his head incredulously, and Llewelyn laughed outright. "How long, Iestyn, ere he is demanding that you owe him an apology for not letting him kill you? This one has a tongue nimble enough to lick honey off thorns."

"No," Justin said, "he has a forked tongue, like any snake." Leaning over, he knotted the neck of Durand's tunic in his fist, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. "So you'd have us believe that you played no part in this ransom robbery. What about John's dealings with the Breton? I suppose you are going to insist you know nothing of him, either."

"The Breton?" Durand's eyes widened in surprise, but Justin could not tell if it was real or feigned. "I've heard of him. Who has not? He is said to be a master spy, one who is as elusive as early morning mist. I've never laid eyes on him, doubt that many have. Even his name is not known for certes. People call him the Breton, but none know if he truly does come from Brittany. What makes you think that he is involved in this?"

Justin could only marvel at the man's gall. "You dare to interrogate me after doing your best to kill me? When did we become a team again, Durand?"

"If you are going to stop John from carrying off the ransom, you'll need my help. Unless you'd rather take vengeance upon me and fail the queen?"

Llewelyn and Ednyved were both laughing, and after a moment, Justin laughed, too, for what else could he do? "I'd sooner take one of Hell's own demons as a partner than you, Durand."

If Durand was afraid, he was hiding it well. "I do not see that you have a choice, de Quincy," he said with a sneer, "not if you want to recover that ransom."

"Actually," Llewelyn said, "he does have a choice." His dark eyes flicked from Durand, over to Justin. "I can see why you'd prefer Hell's dregs to this weasel, Iestyn. But you can do better. What say you that we join forces to find the wool?"

"No offense, Llewelyn, but why would I want to do that?"

"Mayhap because you are a stranger in a land not your own, and you have neither the men nor the familiarity with these woods and hills to make a successful search."

"True… but I could get the men I need, hire local guides."

"True… but how much time would that take? Need I remind you that time is not on your side? If the ransom payment is delayed, what happens to your King Richard? Nothing good, I'd wager."

He'd not told Justin anything he did not already know. Justin had just been curious to see how well Llewelyn had grasped the weaknesses of his position. Now that he had his answer — all too well — he decided he had nothing to lose by candor, and he said, "I'll not argue that with you. Let's say we do work together, and we find the wool. What then? How do I know you'll not seize it all to pay for your rebellion?"

Llewelyn was quiet for a moment, paying Justin the compliment of taking his question seriously. "In all honesty, I suppose you do not, Iestyn. I can give you my word that I will not, and I am willing to do so. But there is no surety that I'd not change my mind at first sight of all that wool. So… yes, you'd be taking a risk. Let me ask you this, though. What are your chances of recovering the ransom on your own?"

Now it was Justin's turn to consider his response. "Probably not very good. So if I am going to wager, I might as well wager that you are a man of honor. You have a deal, Llewelyn."

"Are you out of your bleeding mind?" Durand struggled to sit up, staring at Justin in outraged disbelief. "You trust this Welsh outlaw and Richard will be held in Germany till he rots!"

"Does anyone want to hear his yammering?" Ednyved queried. "I thought not." Reaching down, he stuffed the gag back into Durand's mouth. Rhys had just re-entered the chapel and observed that if they wanted to shut the Englishman up, it would be easier to cut his throat. Justin could not tell if he were joking or not, and neither could Durand, who stopped trying to spit out the gag.

"Are we ready to go?" Llewelyn asked, and Rhys nodded, not volunteering until prodded that John's men were confined and the lay brothers had been summoned down from the hayloft. He was a laconic sort, but there was a glint in those cat-green eyes that explained why Davydd had chosen to name him as de Caldecott's assassin.

"I am guessing that you have horses hidden nearby?" Justin asked Llewelyn. "Can you provide me with one… at least until I can get back to the grange to reclaim my stallion?"

"I expect we can find a mount for you," Llewelyn agreed. "Mertyn is only a few miles from here, so we can stop for your horse. That way we can begin our search on the morrow."

"Very good," Justin said, before the significance of his new ally's words hit him. How did Llewelyn know he was staying at Mertyn? "It is flattering that you think it worthwhile to keep such close watch on me."

"Do not let it go to your head," Ednyved said with a smile. "Llewelyn is not content unless he knows what is happening the length and breadth of Wales… every fallen tree, every rutted mountain trail, every acorn rooted up by a hungry pig."

"Why not? This is my country, the land of my birth, a land under siege," Llewelyn said, and though he smiled, too, Justin sensed that he was speaking from the heart. It occurred to him that one reason there was such strife between the English Crown and its Welsh vassals was this inbred passion for the woodlands and mountains and rivers of Wales.

Richard was King of the English, but he was also Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count of Anjou, and England was merely one of his domains. Justin was sure that Richard did not think of himself as English. He knew that many of Norman descent did not, even after dwelling there for more than a hundred years. He'd never actually given it much thought himself, for like most people, he was more aware of class than nationality.

But it was different in Llewelyn's homeland. The Welsh seemed to have a strong sense of kinship that their neighbors across the border did not share. While it did not stop them from fighting one another as furiously as they did the English, Justin did not doubt that they saw themselves, first and foremost, as Welsh. For him, bastard-born, raised as an orphan and foundling, never truly be longing anywhere, it was difficult to imagine how it must be to have such deep roots.

"Iestyn? Is it such a hard decision to make as that?"

Justin blinked, returning to reality to find the Welshmen looking at him curiously. "I got lost in thought," he acknowledged. "You asked me…?"

"I wanted to know," Llewelyn said, "what you'd have us do with him?"

Turning, Justin regarded Durand, who met his eyes defiantly. Llewelyn moved to his side, studying the captive knight with the impersonal distaste of a man who'd just turned over a rock and did not like what he'd found. "I doubt that this one would be mourned. His death is more likely to bring joy to any number of men. But he is of some value to your queen. You need to decide if that value outweighs all the very valid reasons for sending him to Hell."

Justin could have dragged out the suspense; God knows, Durand deserved it. But he already knew what he must do. "Leave him," he said contemptuously. "That will give him time to cobble together a story to explain his failure to John." He could not resist pausing, though, in the doorway, for a final look back at the man lying, bound and helpless, on the muddied chapel floor. His last sight of Durand was one he'd long remember, always with fierce satisfaction.